Rival Reviews: Erddig
Welcome to Erddig. Visitors must try not to trip over the artefacts.
By all accounts a lovely day at Erddig
The National Trust describes the owners of Erddig, a picturesque 18th century home on the edge of Wrexham, as ‘avid collectors’, and ‘not keen to throw things away’, among other similar sentiments. ‘Hoarder’ may also be accurate. Erddig is the second largest collection in the National Trust (second only to the rambling Tyntesfield in Bristol) with roughly 30,000 objects, most of them seemingly still stuffed into the attic.
The vile ham itself
When the last owner, Philip Yorke III, handed over his crumbling estate in 1973, the agreement was that every single item within Erddig’s boundary line must be retained; presumably to the point that dead moths and spiders found at the back of cupboards must be dutifully photographed and categorised in the object database. Objects range across all genres, from state beds, portraits of servants, handwritten Christmas cards and a vile leg of ham dating from 1938. Yes really.
So, how did Erddig become such a treasure trove of tat?
It all began in 1682, when Joshua Edisbury was appointed High Sheriff of Denbighshire. A High Sheriff is a ceremonial officer, a role which still exists. These days, High Sheriffs don’t really have any genuine political power, mostly just turning up at functions to say they were there, but in the 1600’s the role involved a lot more responsibility, mainly revolving around maintaining law and order. To celebrate his new role, Edisbury decided to build a big, big house on the crest of an escarpment (steep slope) to ensure maximum views. Work began in 1684, but by 1709 Edisbury was bankrupt and Erddig sat unfinished.
On the slippery slope to bankruptcy Edisbury sought help from all quarters. One notable loan came from none other than Elihu Yale, founder of the famous uni that Rory went to in Gilmore Girls. Yale had been schmoozed by Edisbury, who had sent him ‘caskes of ale’. Yale must have really liked the booze, because he sent a ‘Japan skreen’ back as a reciprocal. You can still see this screen in the State Bedroom, I told you these guys didn’t throw anything away!
To clear his debts, Edisbury was forced to sell his estate to a London lawyer, John Mellor. Unmarried and with no children, Mellor was able to not only buy out Edisbury’s debts and his home, but he was also able to then extend the house and furnish it with all the very best in interior design for the day. Must have been a bit of a kick in the teeth for Edisbury.
Mellor left a very classy Erddig to his nephew, Simon Yorke, and this family inhabited the estate until the National Trust wrestled it from Phillip in 1973. Each new generation made changes to the property, from swapping out the wallpaper to building a whole new service yard, and there was very little drama. On the whole, the family seemed to have lived quiet, respectable lives.
However, by the start of the 20th century, outside forces were working against the Yorkes and Erddig. The new century was bringing with it new opportunities, and new challenges. The decline in agriculture in the second half of the 19th century, brought on by technological advancements and the population’s move from country to city life, meant that country estates, typically funded by farmable land, increasingly had to pinch their pennies. Additionally, the rise in social mobility and the middle classes opened up opportunities for work beyond a life of servitude for the lower classes, and suddenly employment as a footman didn’t seem so appealing, thus robbing the estates of their traditional reserves of staff. Things were looking bad, and we haven’t even got into the wars. When Phillip Yorke II and his wife Louisa Scott inherited the Erddig in 1894, they spent most of their time there trying to keep the house afloat amid dwindling servants and funds.
By the time Simon Yorke VI was handed the house aged just 19 in 1922, the property was on the outs in a big way. To make matters even worse, in the mid 20th century, coal mine shafts underneath Erddig caused serious subsidence, because of course it did. Simon shut himself away, from the world but also possibly from reality. He lived without electricity or a telephone and refused to part with any of the house’s contents even as the financial situation got more and more desperate. When he died in 1966, his younger brother Phillip inherited a grand house in a state of extreme disrepair. An unmarried man like his brother, he knew that he would the last to inherit the estate, and so he turned to the National Trust, who took control of Erddig 5 years before the last Yorke was to die. Phillip lived long enough to witness the completion of the four year restoration project on his childhood home, seeing it finally returned to its former opulence.
The old lime courtyard
Now, more than forty years later, it’s a lovely day about half a mile from Wrexham. Despite the amount of vehicles in the car park the estate does not feel overly crowded. We have driven about an hour to be here, wrangling our car for the last ten minutes down that old countryside trademark, treacherously narrow lanes.
A visit to Erddig starts immediately in the outbuildings, a once bustling hub for the working estate. The National Trust has set up a temporary shop in the Joiner’s Workshop while theirs is undergoing a refit. Due to its scale, the vibe is slightly like that of an abandoned village, with stables, car garages, blacksmiths, paint stores and dog yards all present, accounted for and laid out like the workers have only just left. Every gap between buildings leads to another area to explore, or to a door to poke one’s head into. I don't recall ever seeing anything quite like it.
This is also the first place that really gives you the sense for just how much stuff Erddig contains. The rooms on view are packed to the gills with artefacts and objects. Truthfully it would have been helpful as a visitor to have an inventory in each room, but such an ask almost seems unfair. A request on the scale of the Domesday Book.
The purpose built spaces, these steps lead to a washing vat
Our tour begins in earnest in the servants quarters. This is a fascinating space architecturally. The function of the rooms have literally been built into their design; for example in the laundry. Traditionally, large copper basins were painstakingly filled with hot water to wash clothes, but here these pots have been installed above a fire alcove so water could be heated directly. Additionally, stone steps lead up to the basins for ease of access. It communicates a respect for the servants not often felt in these spaces. And the reason why is soon clear. Separating the servants quarters from the stairs to the main house is a long corridor, containing portraits, then later photos, of dedicated long-term servants. Almost all are accompanied by a poem written by the master of the house. A remarkable tradition to be sure, but probably still not one which made up for the long hours and low pay that was the norm for the time. In fact, it’s suggested to us by a steward this was precisely why the tradition began. The Yorkes were never loaded, and could not pay higher wages that might be available elsewhere - was a familiarity with the help part of a staff retention strategy plan?
This personal touch followed the house tour all the way through. We were told that this is one of the only National Trust properties dressed solely with items from the family collection, and you can really feel it. There is an impressive amount of anecdotal stories found in the informational booklets or passed on from stewards.
The house has a vibe not unlike the good kind of antiques shop, which should always feel like you’re one step away from knocking over a precariously balanced stack of furniture, glassware and novelty jugs with your tote bag. Presumably a ploy from discerning antique shop owners to cash in on a ‘you break it, you buy it policy’. That is to say, Erddig is stuffed. Paintings jostle for space on the walls, chairs are lined around tables, against walls and under windows, and any and all flat surfaces buckle under the sheer weight of trinkets and knick-knacks, and all the while decorative objects of every kind vie for your attention amid the general clutter. The difference between the dress rooms and the visitors walkway is almost comical, an ocean of objects kept at bay by a demure velvet rope. All together it feels like the most lived-in house I’ve seen in a while and I am entranced.
Great day for fans of paintings and chairs
If there is one criticism to level at Erddig, it is that there are so many objects it’s difficult for any one piece to shine. But amongst it all we do manage to find some genuinely unique artefacts. The dollhouse is fantastic, but perhaps not as luminous as the one belonging to Nostell Priory, which is given more attention and whose presentation allows visitors to examine its fascinating detail up close. Another standout is a Victorian shower, a small shallow tub with three bamboo-imitation rods holding up a water tank with a shower head on its base. A fun idea until you consider that it was someone’s job was to get a substantial amount of hot water into a very high basin. Still, it might earn you a portrait for your trouble.
All this being said, it’s clear we didn’t get the full experience. One thing I was hyped up to see was the hilariously named ‘Failures Gallery’, a corridor downstairs where the family displayed works and artefacts they didn’t like to look at, but true to form, didn’t feel like they could just throw out. This is a family who would have loved a re-gift opportunity if ever I saw one. Unfortunately however this was not open. Also not available was the Chapel, the Agent’s Office and the Chinese room, among others.
The Victorian shower, perhaps a little narrow?
Elsewhere, the State Bedroom was of particular interest to me. Reinforced by special walls to maintain climate in the room itself, we are separated from the delicate silk curtains and bed hangings that are most likely older than the bed itself. This matters little though, because the silks aren’t there anyway, taken away for conservation. I did not ask, and now I wish I had, whether the walls were part of this conservation effort or if this glass-case existence is how the state bed, the Chinese wallpaper and Yale’s ’Japan Skreen’ will always live from now on.
I can’t help but wonder how the poor fragile chinoiseries had survived 200 years prior to this very specific setup, but it’s very possible they didn’t. Louisa Yorke wrote in 1923 that the silk hangings had been patched with fabric from the silk curtains 23 years prior, and the bed has already undergone repair work at the Victoria and Albert museum from 1968 - 1977. Now, much of the silk has been taken away to ensure its survival. We may well ask who will benefit from such survival if the silks sit forever in storage.
When our tour of the house is over, we head outside, blinking like cave people after the dim light of the inside. I will admit, like anyone with taste, my favourite part of the house was the formal gardens at the rear of the property, in particular the Victorian parterre flower bedding. The gardens were designed to melt into the landscape, starting most formally with the parterre nearest the house, and slowly incorporating natural elements as the gardens progress outward all while maintaining symmetry.
A formal garden and a garden pavilion, I could enjoy an Aperol Spritz out here
The gardens are restrained, and they are lovelier for it. Compared to the clutter of the house, the formal layout is a breath of fresh air. Impeccably kept, with tulips dominating the blooms, carefully manicured hedges and a neat, smooth lawn. Matching garden pavilions on either side of the parterre give the space a decidedly Mediterranean feel, even though this garden-style is Dutch in origin. I assume they are later additions, but Erddig is unique for having an almost untouched 18th century garden design, perhaps only equalled by English Heritage’s Wrest Park in Bedfordshire.
After this there is nothing else to do but pick up a guidebook and leave. Starved of the real thing, on the way home I began to plan my own Failure’s Gallery. It might be a good way to psych potential gift-givers out.
Lunch
I give up! We bought a packed lunch: ciabatta rolls and home brewed coffee. Eaten on a bench overlooking the Welsh countryside - idyllic.
Is the café in the Stables or the Kitchens?
Stables. The kitchen is part of the house tour and also contains that grim ham which is definitely a health hazard, probably even a biohazard.
Can I take my dog?
For once I wouldn’t bother. Dogs are not allowed inside the mansion of course, but they are also not allowed around the 18th century restored gardens. This is right and proper, those gardens are stunning and your cockapoo just wouldn’t appreciate them.
Can I take my kids?
There is a playground for kids, but no tour through the house, at least during our visit. Luckily in my experience kids love looking at loads of stuff all piled together so I imagine they would enjoy the interior. In particular the Victorian toys in the nursery are pretty cool and appropriately creepy.
Walks?
The gardens are relatively small but the general nature surrounding the estate are beautiful. Probably calls for hiking boots though.
Well, what did you think?
This is one of those country houses that really feels like it's in the country, the roads to the venue satisfyingly awkward to drive down, the view from the property unsullied by material civilisation, and sheep bleats by far the loudest sound on the horizon. I enjoyed it very much. There is a feeling that this is a little known house, even just barely across the border into Wales, it cannot give itself the distinction of the archetypal English Country House, a problem shared by Scotland and Ireland, whose architecture is studied less by virtue of the notion that English properties are the gold standard, and more worthy of our time. But make no mistake, this is a one of a kind property, and it is interesting to consider what the National Trust might do with the many, many, many objects in its care. There is potential perhaps to restore and dress the whole house in situ, which would make Erddig unique among its companions. Also I like being nosy and I would enjoy that very much. To have so many objects on such a varied scale, all the way from grand state beds to greeting cards, is an honour and a privilege, capable of telling a story of everyday life that is palpable throughout Erddig. What good are those objects in the attic doing? Bring them into the light (metaphorically of course), so we might all enjoy both the fantastic and the mundane of the past. Please though I implore you, get rid of the ham.